


You Can Lose Yourself in Your Courage

by threemeows



Series: Close My Eyes and Believe [4]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: You can lose yourself in your courageWhen the time we have now ends,When the big hand goes round again,Can you still feel the butterflies?Can you still hear the last goodnight?Alternate universe ski trip shenanigans. The conclusion. Picks up directly after "The First Star I See."





	You Can Lose Yourself in Your Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue is lifted directly from the movie and the first and second books.
> 
> Title for the series and this installment is from the Jimmy Eat World song, "For Me This is Heaven."

Her entire body is humming.

 

Lara Jean’s lost track of the time, wrapped up in Peter’s arms, pressed into the softness of the mattress. She can’t recall when he rolled her onto her back – just that it happened, some time ago. She’s lying on top of her discarded robe – Peter’s shirt is tangled up somewhere at the foot of the bed, she can feel a part of it snagged on her big toe. She kicks it off of her, still kissing Peter, and it lands with a flop somewhere. As she moves, she feels his hand, resting on her hip, slide down and around – cups her ass – and lifts her leg, pulling it around his waist. His thumb hooks around the side of her panties and stays there.

 

“Are you cold?”

 

“Hmm? No,” she murmurs, eyes closed. She’s never felt warmer.

 

“You’re shaking,” he mumbles back, against the line of her throat.

 

She closes her eyes. She does feel a little trembly. “I’m okay,” she says, nudges her face against his. He takes the hint and kisses her again, and she slides her hands from his back, around his ribs and up his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just seems to sigh a little into her mouth, and she realizes – he likes that. _He likes it when I touch him._ She brings her hands to his face, pulls him closer into her, harder. Bites his bottom lip.

 

On top of her, Peter’s entire body seems to stiffen for a brief moment – and then he pushes his weight up into her, lets go of her panties and shoves his hand up her stomach, and over her breast in one swoop. She can’t help the surprised “Mmphf!” that escapes, the heat pooling in her lower belly spiking suddenly, deliciously.

 

Peter starts to pull back, alarmed – but she quickly cups her hands around the back of his head, keeps kissing him – to let him know she’d liked what he was doing. He relaxes after a second, and then his hand begins to move, molding her breast.

 

Lara Jean sighs, a happy hum. She bends her knees – he’s lying in between them now – slides her hands from his face to his throat, down his chest, around his sides again – to his back. She likes tracing patterns on his shoulder blades, the bumps of his ribcage and spine. The small of his back. And then into both back pockets of his jeans. Her fingers flex and she pulls, to push him against her again – she’d liked that feeling, the hardness of him in between her thighs, solid and steady against her.

 

Peter groans, a low sound deep in his throat – she feels his breath go sputtery against her cheeks, and then he dives his hand into her bra, pinches her nipple lightly – pushes his hips against her, again, and again. Lara Jean stops kissing him, unable to breathe properly – all that heat, tightening in her core, is starting to build, rising to some sort of breaking point and she can’t – she’s almost –

 

He stops playing with her breast, stops pushing against her, and she almost whines – but then his hand trails down her stomach, into her panties. Lara Jean freezes, her eyes flying open – but then she feels his finger go inside her, and she bites her lip, hips raising up to meet his hand.

 

He’s – he’s not getting it right, not exactly. Lara Jean winces, tries to angle her body so that he’ll hit that spot – but . . .

 

“W-wait,” she murmurs, panting. She grabs hold of his wrist, pushes. “Right – right there . . . l-like that.”

 

He pauses, looks at her. “I thought you said – you know, you’d never had a boyfriend before, so . . .?”

 

She presses her lips together, face aflame. “No, not with another person,” she admits, quietly. “Just . . . you know, by myself, sometimes . . .” She’d been curious. Her romance novels – some of them got _really_ detailed . . . It had felt nice, but she’d gotten scared and always stopped before – well, before anything happened.

 

He leans forward, lashes down, his hand still between her legs, unmoving. He kisses up her stomach, and her breath hitches when his lips trail past the lace of her bra, nudging the satin fabric aside with his nose. “That’s hot,” he murmurs.

 

She closes her eyes, lifts her hips again. His finger begins to slide out, and in again – presses exactly where she showed him – and her head lolls on the pillow, and she’s getting warm again, fluttery, her thighs sticky. “Ah . . .”

 

“That’s so hot . . . you’re so fucking hot . . .” And then he’s tonguing her nipple, he’s sucking hard at it, harder, and all of a sudden the coil of heat in her springs, rushes up and over her, and she’s gasping, clutching at his hair, unable to say anything but ride all that sensation out.

 

Eventually, Peter stills, pushes off her – he’s got a small smile on his face, like he’s proud, and she flushes, but smiles back at him.

 

Should she say it? When she and Margot were kids, they made a promise – they wouldn’t have sex until they were at least twenty-one, or really, really in love with someone.

 

She’s not twenty-one.

 

And she’s . . . she’s . . . she’s not sure if she’s really, really in love with someone. She likes Peter. She really likes Peter. He was her first (awkward) kiss. She wrote a letter to him in eighth grade, about the golden flecks in his eyes and his pizza-hogging ways, and what the hell does a thirteen-year-old know about loving someone in the eighth freaking grade.

 

(He called her pretty. He packed her favorite snacks – he knew what those favorite snacks were, without her telling him. He’s good with Kitty. When he kisses her she feels like the entire sky has opened up to her, shooting stars falling all around her. He’s told her things about his dad he’s never told anyone before. And under a night sky, so late that they should’ve been sleeping, he told her that she was the only one to ever to get him . . . and she knew, then, and now, he’s been the only one to get her . . .)

 

She takes a deep breath – looks at a spot somewhere on his shoulder, not his eyes – and whispers, “I’ve got some – you know – condoms in my bag.”

 

He hesitates, then says, “Covey, we don’t have – ”

 

“No, I want to,” she insists, and sits up, pulling at her backpack at the side of her bed. She doesn’t know how to explain it. Saying “it feels right” sounds so cliché. And it’s already so cliché, she supposes. Losing her virginity in a hotel room during the freaking _ski trip_. But . . .

 

It’s not rose petals and candlelight and tinkly piano music. They’re not in a field of grass and wildflowers and she’s not wearing a Victorian dress. But somehow it’s the still the most romantic thing to her.

 

“It feels right,” she says, simply, and brushes a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead with shaky fingers. She kisses him, lightly, and then opens her backpack and pulls out the brown paper bag.

 

Peter almost chokes on his laughter. “What the hell?! How much sex did you think we were gonna have?”

 

She gives him a withering look.

 

“No, I’m flattered, Covey, really, I think it’s amazing you think I’m this irresistible,” he smarms, still laughing.

 

“I didn’t bring this, my dad gave them to me,” she says, primly, and that shuts him up.

 

“Your _dad_ \- Covey, no way, I don’t like that he thinks we’re – ”

 

“Peter.”

 

“You’re gonna come back, and he’s gonna go through that bag and count and see if anything’s missing, and then I’m a dead man – ”

 

“My dad likes you,” she says, taking one condom out and shoving it into his hand. “And I’m leaving this bag here. So he won’t be able to count them, as if he even would.” She pauses. Would he? Now that she thinks about it . . . yeah, better leave the entire bag here.

 

“Great, so he’ll think we had sex like bunnies and used all of them up, instead of – ”

 

“Peter,” she sighs, and puts the bags down and pulls at the back clasp of her bra. “Can you please be quiet?”

 

And he does just that, when she turns around, drops her bra onto the floor, and slips out of her panties. She doesn’t look at him, only pulls at the duvet to slip back into bed, while he starts getting out of his jeans, his back to her. Then she pauses. Should she turn off the light? Get under the covers? Leave the covers off? He just saw her totally naked, but it was only a second, and from the back – what if during . . . _it_. . . he sees other stuff, like, the _main_ stuff, and it doesn’t look good to him? What if . . .

 

She pulls the covers over her, turns off the light.

 

“I – um, kinda need that for now . . .”

 

“Oh. Oh yeah. Sorry.” Lara Jean winces, looks up at the ceiling. The light turns on again and she keeps her gaze on the fire alarm, listens to the tear of foil and the quiet slap of plastic – and then shifts in bed when he approaches, eyes still up, until he turns off the light and everything is plunged into merciful darkness. She feels the coolness of the air as he lifts the covers, the bed depress with his weight – then sees him, limned in blue from the outdoor lights outside the hotel room window, as he lies down next to her.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hey,” she whispers. Her eyes have adjusted – he looks nervous. _What does he have to be nervous for?_ she wonders. He’s done this before. Tons of times. _She’s_ the inexperienced one, the one who –

 

He leans in, kisses her – gentle, delicate, like she might fall apart. Like she already is. She shifts closer to him, breasts pressed flat against his chest – tries not to react when she feels him, all of him, against the entire length of her body. Every bit.

 

He pulls away, pushes her softly onto her back. “You can still tap out,” he says, as he settles in between her legs.

 

Her heart is thudding so wildly, she almost can’t speak. So instead, she pulls him in closer for another kiss. “Thought we weren’t bailing on each other,” she murmurs, after a while.

 

He kisses the tip of her nose – sets his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes, as his hand drifts to her hip, and lifts her leg.

 

And then he pushes into her, and – “ _Ow._ ” That hurt. That hurt a lot. There’s a spiking pain that mercifully stops as soon as it had appeared, but now it’s replaced by a dull ache that doesn’t go away. She clutches at his back, tries to gather herself.

 

“Sorry,” he says. His breath puffs onto his face, and he holds himself very still. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

She shakes her head rapidly. “No. Just – just hold on a second.” She takes a deep breath. She knew it would hurt, she just didn’t think it would hurt _that_ much. “Okay. Okay, I think I’m good.”

 

“Okay.” But he doesn’t move – instead, he kisses her gently, tenderly. “I’ll go slow.” She can’t really reply, because he starts to shift, to push in even more – she winces, tries not to grunt, because the pain is back – and then he starts to pull out a little, which is a relief – and then in again, which is _not_ – and though he does move slowly, it’s not too long before he’s moving in earnest, breath rapid and insistent against the hollow of her throat.

 

And the pain doesn’t really go away, although the sting of it does – but it’s sore, and the stickiness is back, and she wonders if it’s more than just their sweat, maybe it’s some blood, too. The bed squeaks and the headboard keeps hitting the back wall – she hopes to god there’s nobody in the neighboring room that can hear. Every so often he’ll stop and kiss her breasts, lick her nipples taut, and she’ll sigh because that feels nice, and she kisses him as they move together, as she clings to his back.

 

Then he lifts both of her legs, so they hook around his waist, and she can’t help the tiny gasp of pain, because that hurt again – he’s deeper inside her now, she can feel him, but at least now he’s also hitting that spot again, the part that makes her entire body thrum with every push.

 

“That feels better,” she murmurs, against his neck.

 

She feels, rather than hears him chuckle – and then he kisses her, slowly, and says, almost shyly, “Touch yourself – it might be . . . better . . . if you want . . .”

 

And the flush is growing, in her face, if that’s even possible – and she lets go of him, slides her hand in between them – and it’s hard, with him moving, and her hand pressed in between both of their bodies, but she manages to touch herself, to start rubbing – and that does feel infinitely better, makes the warmth growing inside her turn warmer and warmer . . . Peter is moving faster, moaning . . . and she’s getting hotter . . . so hot . . .

 

But then Peter groans into her shoulder, and he stops pushing into her . . . and it takes her a moment to realize he’s finished, that the momentum building inside her has stalled, without release – and it all happens so quickly she can only blink at the ceiling for a second, at a loss. Peter kisses her again, murmurs, “Sorry – I’ll – ” And he rolls off of her, and her legs are sore, from being so long in an a new position, and then he’s flicking his finger against her and she can’t think anymore, just grateful that she can feel the pressure again, the heat . . . and the release – _hot_ – a rush that’s even sharper, harder, than it was before.

 

And later, after he’s tossed the condom, after she settles on her side, her back against his chest and his arm around her waist, she can only sigh – boneless and ragged in her exhaustion. She has one fleeting thought before she drifts off into an uneasy sleep – _God, I hope I was good enough . . ._

 

*

 

There’s sun in his eye.

 

Peter wipes his face with his hand, squints. The drapes weren’t closed properly – there’s a sliver of rising sun slanting directly on his face. Annoyed, he rubs his eyes and yawns and looks over. Lara Jean is turned towards him, on her side, the blankets wrapped tightly underneath her chin. When she catches him looking she smiles, softly, up at him. “Morning,” she says.

 

“Hey.” He clears his throat. “How long you been up?”

 

“Not long,” she says, and yawns. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Almost 8.”

 

He peers over her shoulder – their clothes are all over the floor, the paper bag full of condoms is wide open next to her backpack, and the other bed is still empty. The bus is leaving at 12:00 for home. Chris might be coming soon, and he doubts Covey will like it if her best friend catches them together.

 

“I better get going,” he says, reluctantly. She nods, her gaze on a spot somewhere at the foot of the bed, and he frowns. “You okay?” She’d seemed okay, last night. More than okay.

 

“Hmm? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she says. Then she pauses, and says, haltingly, “You know. It’s just . . . first time. Was wondering if . . . if I’d feel different or something. That’s silly, I guess.” Her cheeks turn red.

 

He shifts closer to her. Pulls at the blanket until she lets go. Then he drapes it over their heads, so that they’re both underneath. If she notices that they’re both still naked she doesn’t say anything – instead, she giggles, and he decides he really likes the sound, muffled underneath the warmth of the duvet. “And do you? Feel different?” he asks.

 

Lara Jean shrugs. “Yes and no.” She raises her hands, palms down, one slightly higher than the other. “It’s kinda like . . . I dunno. We’re at different levels, I guess?”

 

He can feel himself frown at her. “Different levels? What do you mean?”

 

“You know.” Her face turns red. She blows a strand of hair out of her face, as if frustrated. “You’ve, you know, done it before . . . a lot of times, before . . .”

 

She doesn’t mention Gen, but the implication is there, and he’s frustrated himself now, and embarrassed. This is not a conversation he really wants to have. “How many times did you think we . . . I mean . . .?”

 

She shrugs, avoiding his gaze, and says, pretending to be apathetic and failing miserably, “I dunno. Like, once a day maybe?”

 

He bursts out laughing. “I _wish!_ ” And then he shuts up, because, god, that doesn’t sound right. “I meant – no. We weren’t doing it every day. Far from it.”

 

She frowns, like she doesn’t believe him. “That’s not what people at school say.”

 

“How the fuck would they know?” he says, pissed.

 

“I’m just saying,” she says, slowly, “that the impression you guys gave off was that – you know . . .”

 

He rolls his eyes. “That’s just what people think. I mean, yeah, we did it a few times but . . .”

 

“How many times?”

 

“I am _not_ answering that question,” he says, immediately.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because!” Peter flicks the space between her brows with his finger and she yelps. “Would you like it if I asked you who you were fantasizing about when – you know . . .”

 

He can feel his face heat, sees hers do the same. He _would_ like to know – but only if it was him. If it was anybody else, like – like Sanderson, he thinks he might actually punch the guy.

 

“Point noted,” she says, stiffly – which, he decides, is _not_ the answer he wanted to hear, because if it _was_ him, wouldn’t she have said that right away?

 

“So who . . .?” his voice trails off.

 

Offended, she exclaims, “You _just_ said you wouldn’t ask!”

 

“I never said that!”

 

“Well, then, _you_ have to tell me how many times you’ve ever done it with – ” She stops, spluttering, “You know what, never mind. I went down this stupid rabbit hole because I was feeling insecure. Now I feel even more insecure.”

 

Okay, now he feels bad, and now he’s not sure how to make her feel better, either. He can’t change what happened in his past, but maybe . . . maybe he should tell her . . .

 

Peter leans over and kisses her softly, by her ear. He breathes her in – the coconut shampoo again, overlaid with something that he can only describe as warmth and sleep. He keeps placing kisses on her ear, her jaw, down the line of her neck – notes the way her body seems to tense up one second, and unfurl the next, in a telling way. One of her legs brushes against his, smooth, soft – slides between his. At her collarbone, he murmurs, “I’ve never spent the whole night with someone.”

 

She pulls away, confused. “Huh?”

 

He trails his index finger on the line between her brows, until it fades away. “Always snuck out afterwards,” he says, simply. Which is the truth. Gen was always worried they’d get caught.

 

“Oh,” Lara Jean murmurs. And then, realizing, she smiles, shyly. “Oh!”

 

“OhhHHH!” he mimics, high-pitched, and she smacks his shoulder, and he laughs. And then he sobers, and he looks at her, their fingers laced and hands in between them, by their faces. Her laughter dies slowly. “You know the last note? That wasn’t the first time I wrote it.” She stares, uncomprehending. “I wrote it a while ago. Well, a version of it, a while ago. But it said the same thing.”

 

“When?” she says, curious.

 

He’s not looking at her, but their twined hands, as if her knuckles are the most fascinating thing in the world. Because suddenly it’s hard to talk, to admit certain things. Because everything is different, now.

 

“After spin the bottle,” he admits, finally. “Why do you think I suggested this whole fake dating thing in the first place? I always thought you were cute.”

 

She just blinks at him, wide-eyed, almost blank, lashes fluttering in a slow arc. His face feels hot, but he meets her gaze. And then the look in her eyes turn soft, and there’s a glint in them that pierces him so keenly he almost turns away.

 

“I thought you wrote that I was pretty,” she whispers, voice thick with sleep and something more, and he huffs out an astonished little laugh.

 

“Same difference,” he says, pretending to be blithe. But, like always, she seems to see through it – to get it, get him – and suddenly she’s kissing him again, fiercely, and it becomes too hard to find his breath anymore, and all to easy, too natural, to draw it from her.

 

“God, Covey – “ he murmurs, after they’ve fumbled desperately around for another condom, and he’s pushing into her again, buried deep in her, and she’s just holding on, mouth at his throat, panting . . . “I – I . . . _god_ . . .”

 

And then comes her whispered “ _Oh my god_ ” against his lips – her shudder – and he totally loses it.

 

“Lara Jean, I lo - ”

 

It’s lost, in their kiss, but not her reply.

 

“I know. Me, too.”

 

*

 

Chris doesn’t even notice him, hiding underneath the covers the second the door’s lock starts to click, because she’s too hung over and grumpy about the early hour. “What’s with men, LJ?” she bemoans, flopping down on her bed dramatically. “I swear to god, you hook up with them for one night, and they get so clingy!”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Lara Jean says, hiked up to her chin.

 

Chris yawns. “Well, one day you will,” she says, waving her hand. “I doubt Kavinsky will wait on that.” Then she stops, sniffs under her arm. “Oh, ugh. Mind if I jump in the shower first?”

 

“No, go right ahead.”

 

As soon as she shuts the bathroom door and they hear the shower turn on, Peter leaps from the bed and starts dressing. He’s out of the room before Lara Jean even manages to find her bra, with a quick “See you later” and a hasty kiss on the mouth.

 

Lara Jean packs up quietly as Chris showers. She lays out her clothes for the day and her toiletries and make-up. (She leaves the brown paper bag in the night table drawer, missing two condoms.) When it’s her turn to shower, she stays under the hot spray for a long time, humming mixed up lyrics to old songs she doesn’t know the exact words to. Only a tiny bit of dried blood washes away, although she’s a bit tender. She watches the brown-tinged water swirl around the drain until it disappears. It only takes a second.

 

She gets breakfast with Chris and Lucas, waves Pammy on over when she spies her in the line. “How was your night?” she asks Pammy, biting into her bagel.

 

Pammy blushes. “It was nice, thanks.” She leans over and whispers, “Darrell – he’s not – you know, seeing anyone, is he?”

 

Lara Jean widens her eyes. “Oh, well, gee, I dunno,” she says, and Pammy’s face falls, and Lara Jean bursts into laughter. “No, no he isn’t,” she says, bumping shoulders with her.

 

“Okay,” Pammy says, face red, but pleased.

 

Lara Jean grins behind her coffee. _We should go on a double date,_ she resolves, taking a sip. Then she almost snickers to herself. It sounds like something out of her books, or her romcoms. It also sounds so nice.

 

She finally climbs on the bus and spots Peter, who just grins so widely at her arrival it sends a zing through her. It’s almost enough to distract her from the other kids cheering and whooping at her arrival. Confused, she slides into the seat next to him. “You didn’t tell anyone about last night, did you?”

 

“What? No, that’s just how people act with couples on the ski trip. It’s normal.” Quickly, he says, “Hey, I’m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?”

 

_Oh. Okay._ Something about that doesn’t sit right but she’s not going to argue, especially when he threads his fingers with hers and leans his head on her shoulder. She’s asleep before the bus even sets off.

 

Once or twice, she wakes up, but curls right back into Peter. It makes the trip seem much shorter. She’s bleary-eyed and still sleepy when the bus finally pulls into the school parking lot. “Want me to drop you off at home?” Peter asks, when she hops down.

 

“Yeah. Dad might be home though,” she cautions.

 

Peter shrugs, though he looks slightly guilty. While they’re waiting for their luggage, he spots his lacrosse coach and goes over to talk to him. Lara Jean manages to retrieve her suitcase after a while and is about to go join them when someone steps in her way.

 

“Hey, Lara Jean.”

 

The friendly tone of voice immediately raises her hackles. Lara Jean straightens, cautious, and looks at Gen.

 

“So, I think it’s so cool you came out on the ski trip,” Gen says, eyes bright. “Hope you had fun.”

 

“Thanks,” she replies, confused.

 

“Also, I just wanted to say I think it’s really big of you for being so understanding about my friendship with Peter. I mean, a lot of girls would be pretty weirded out by their boyfriend going off to talk with their ex . . .” And Gen leans forward, conspiratorial, as if she’s trusting Lara Jean with something secret, something only two girlfriends would share.

 

Lara Jean doesn’t say anything. After last night – after this morning – she’s beginning to see Gen differently. She used to think that behind the perfect sheen, the pretty smile, was a grin full of daggers – something sinister and mean. That her icy glare could cut everyone – including Lara Jean – down in a blink. Now, Lara Jean realizes it’s not steel in Gen’s stare, twinkling with underhanded glee – but something far more brittle, more delicate.

 

_You were never second best._

 

No. But someone else was, though, wasn’t she?

 

She takes a deep breath and looks at her former best friend squarely. “I’m really sorry that things didn’t work out between you and Peter,” she says, quietly, with complete sincerity. “I hope you’re okay with it. And if you’re not, I understand.”

 

Gen’s mouth drops open, like she can’t believe what she just heard. Her hand twitches around her ponytail, around a flowered scrunchie.

 

Lara Jean tilts her head towards her. “Is that my . . .?” The last time she saw it was around Peter’s wrist, at Greg’s party, months ago. She’d honestly forgotten all about it.

 

“Peter gave it to me,” Gen blurts out. The color has left her face, and she’s stammering, like she’s been thrown. Lara Jean nods, slowly, unfazed. This must be Gen’s Hail Mary – this last, desperate attempt to strike, to win. To hurt. “Wasn’t that sweet of him?” Gen prattles on, scrabbling, as she pulls the scrunchie down and picks at the elastic. “I mean, I just love the colors.”

 

Lara Jean doesn’t rise to the bait. “Thanks for taking care of it for me,” she says, smoothly. “I told him it would like nice on you.” She plucks the scrunchie from Gen’s hand, and puts it around her wrist. Then she takes another breath and looks at Gen one final time. Gen is still pale-faced, almost shaking. “Like I said. I’m sorry. I hope we can be friends again.”

 

There’s a brief second where something – _Vindication?_ – flares in Gen’s eyes. But then it’s gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a red-faced scowl. “Grow up, Lara Jean,” she snaps, and pushes past her in a fury.

 

Lara Jean just sighs. Something tells her that she should still be careful of Gen, but there’s really nothing she can do about that now. She tried.

 

*

 

“So, care to explain?”

 

Peter doesn’t seem to realize what she’s talking about, too busy pulling out of the school parking lot to really pay attention. Once they hit the main road, he glances over and sees her dangling the scrunchie in the corner of his eye.

 

He winces. “Ah, shit . . . sorry. I forgot all about it.”

 

“You promised you wouldn’t lose it!”

 

“Technically, I didn’t. I knew exactly where it was,” he says. She snorts. “Hey, you forgot about it, too!”

 

She turns her nose up at him. “Well?”

 

He shrugs, uncomfortable. “It was during Greg’s party. She took it. And since I was . . . well, you know . . . still trying to . . . anyway, sorry.”

 

She giggles, tossing the scrunchie into her backpack. She’ll throw it in the washing machine later. “You’re cute when you’re scrambling.”

 

He gives her a withering glare, before turning his eyes back onto the road. At a red light, he asks, quietly, “She okay?”

 

Lara Jean shrugs. “Yeah. I guess. I apologized to her.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For – you know. Stuff.” The light turns green, but he doesn’t drive forward, just looks at her. Someone honks their horn behind them and only then does he press the pedal. “I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. You know, back at the party.”

 

“ . . . That was _eighth grade!_ And it was spin the bottle. You don’t cheat the bottle!”

 

She cocks her brow at him. Funny how he insisted upon strict rule adherence then, and now. Except now she gets why. “Yeah. But I knew then how much she liked you.” She fiddles with the scrunchie. “I wondered why she stopped hanging out with me not long after. But I was being dense again, I guess.” And now knowing what Gen was going through with her parents – is _still_ going through – well . . . Lara Jean sees her part in all of this, however careless, or unintentional.

 

Peter reaches over, grabs her hand. She squeezes his back, but they don’t say anything for the rest of the ride. She pushes the scrunchie into her backpack – she’ll run it through the wash before she wears it again. The sun is just starting to set when they pull up to the house.

 

“Your dad’s not here,” he says, looking around.

 

“Yeah, but Kitty is,” she says, nodding at the bicycle, lying abandoned on the front yard. “I’m gonna have to tell her to bring it into the shed. She’s always leaving it out.”

 

But when they walk into the front door, Kitty comes tearing in from the back yard. “Lara Jean! You’re back!” she exclaims. “And Peter! Yay!” She leaps at them. “Did the Yakult work?”

 

“The what?” Peter asks, after she disentangles herself from him.

 

“The Korean yoghurt smoothies, duh,” she says, as Lara Jean blushes. Peter just coughs.

 

“You did this all by yourself?” Lara Jean asks, nodding at the wreaths and the lights and the tree. It looks beautiful in here. Just like all the previous years when she and Margot would –

 

“Hey, little sister.”

 

“Margot?!?!” Lara Jean exclaims, as Margot comes down the stairs. And then she thinks, _Oh no, Margot._ Because her older sister has stopped dead in her tracks, looking over Lara Jean’s shoulder with a surprised expression on her face.

 

“Oh, hey, um – ” Margot says, to Peter.

 

“Hey,” Peter says, and Lara Jean, glances at him. _He’s nervous._

 

“Peter, right?” Margot asks, politely, which makes Lara Jean want to melt into the floor. Somehow, this is even more awkward than when Peter and Dad met. Then, those two were thick as thieves right away, and she’d been the only one quietly stewing in weirdness. She’s not sure how to handle her sister and Peter meeting – especially since it looks like _they’re_ not sure, either. There’s this weird half-beat where Peter and Margot don’t seem to know what to do – a dance of a half-handshake, half-one-armed-hug.

 

“What are you doing back?” Lara Jean asks, hugging her – mainly to hide her own bright-red face.

 

“I got done with exams early. Thought I’d make it a surprise. Daddy doesn’t even know yet, he got called into the hospital.” Margot pulls away. “So . . . Christmas cookie bonanza?”

 

“Um, yeah, sure,” Lara Jean stutters.

 

“Perfect!” Margot says, brightly. “You should stay, too, Peter. I’m sure we all have lots to talk about!” she says, pointedly, at Lara Jean. She hooks her arm through Kitty’s and as they walk along into the kitchen, Lara Jean hears her hiss, “And you didn’t _tell_ me?!” And Kitty’s hushed reply, “I thought you _knew!_ ”

 

“Do you want me to beat it?” Peter asks, quietly.

 

Lara Jean doesn’t like the tone in his voice. “No, it’s just – I mean,” she mumbles, trying to gather her bearings.

 

“So, Peter, have you had Lara Jean’s chocolate chip cookies?” Margot asks, already getting all the ingredients out onto the island. “Hers are pretty good, but I can make a killer batch too.”

 

“Can we do some with peanut butter chips?” Kitty asks, rummaging in the pantry.

 

Peter glances from Lara Jean to Kitty, to Margot, then back to Lara Jean – who shrugs, haphazardly dumping her backpack on the floor against the island.

 

“That’s not very Christmas-y,” he says, leaning across the island. “Any of you Covey girls make fruitcake cookies?”

 

*

 

As far as impressing your new(ish?) girlfriend’s older sister goes, Peter thinks he’s doing fairly well. Margot asks polite questions about school, some of the teachers, and how lacrosse is going. He asks about college and living abroad. Lots of kids every year at Adler get accepted to out-of-state colleges – some to the really prestigious ones. But Margot Song-Covey kind of blew everyone’s minds when she got accepted to St. Andrews.

 

It’s really Kitty who keeps the conversation going, peppering everybody with questions and making her typical Kitty declarations. Which is a good thing, because Lara Jean is basically mute – ostensibly trying to get the Christmas fruitcake cookies just right. “I’ve never made them before,” she explains, when he bumps his shoulder with hers. She chews on her lip, scrolling through the recipe on her phone as she holds up a cup of flour over a big mixing bowl. White powder billows everywhere onto the island granite top, but she doesn’t notice.

 

Peter frowns but doesn’t press. He knows on her end this whole fake dating thing was to keep Sanderson at bay and make sure Margot didn’t find out about shit from years ago, but . . . well, isn’t that all over now? Especially after last night – hell, this morning? And like – he still doesn’t quite get why Lara Jean never told Margot about him in the first place, even for cover purposes. The Instagram thing still kind of eats at him, if he’s being truthful.

 

“Can you stay for movies?” Kitty asks him.

 

“Oh, well, I thought it was girls night,” Margot says.

 

“Dad’ll be back soon, so that’s ruined,” Kitty points out.

 

“Um, well, if Peter wants to,” Lara Jean murmurs, putting down the flour. Peter can feel his frown deepening. Shouldn’t _she_ want him to?

 

“Well, I mean – ” he starts to say.

 

There’s a knock at the door. Kitty leaps up from the island stool. “I’ll get it!” she chirps.

 

“I’m being rude,” Margot says, sounding sincerely apologetic, as Kitty scampers off. “I didn’t mean to say you shouldn’t stay – I was just surprised because Lara Jean never mentioned you before.”

 

Lara Jean gives him a side-long glance. He shrugs his shoulders, feigning indifference, but really he just wants her to get out with it. Margot not knowing is not sitting well with him, for some reason he can’t really explain, despite the no snitching stipulation in their contract. Which really – null and void now, supposedly?

 

“Okay, so it looks like it’s girls _and_ boys night!” Kitty declares, as they all turn. Standing right behind her is Sanderson.

 

*

 

“Josh?!” Margot exclaims, dropping her mixing spoon.

 

“I – you’re – ” Josh looks from Lara Jean to Margot, to Kitty, to back to Margot. “I didn’t know you were back.”

 

Lara Jean, uncomfortable, takes a big step back from the island. Kitty is practically bouncing on her heels with happiness. At first, Lara Jean can’t understand why – then she realizes, it’s because her kid sister’s got both beloved older brother figures under one roof, at the same time. And she has no idea what shit storm is about to explode. Hesitant, Lara Jean glances at Peter, who doesn’t look happy.

 

At _all_.

 

“I finished my exams early,” Margot explains. Then she pauses, and says, stepping forward, her hand gently out, “I don’t think there’s really anything left to say . . .”

 

“You’re right, there isn’t,” Josh says, but not unkindly. “I, uh, just came over to talk to LJ.”

 

Her heart bottoms out, and Lara Jean clasps both hands to her chest, shaking her head rapidly. _No. No. No. No._ Margot’s brows crease, and then she looks over at Lara Jean. “LJ? Why?”

 

“I – I, um – ” Lara Jean presses her fingers to her eyes, at a complete loss as to what to do. No – that’s not true. She knows what she has to do, but god, it’s going to suck. She lets her hands fall from her face, licks her lips, and tries to start over. “Gogo, you’ve got to understand, it was – ”

 

“See,” Josh interrupts, before she can even begin. “Anonybitch posted something on Instagram. Said a lacrosse jock and the school good girl had sex on the ski trip. It’s been liked about a thousand times, last time I checked. And all the comments are saying it’s this dirtbag and Lara Jean.”

 

That – that wasn’t what she was expecting.

 

“What?!” Margot exclaims, shocked.

 

“Whoa,” Kitty says, wide-eyed.

 

“I – I –“ She can’t feel her limbs. It has to be a lie. It has to be. She runs over to her backpack, digs out her phone. There are a hundreds of notifications – all from Instagram. Peppered throughout are frantic texts from Lucas and Chris. With shaking fingers, she brings up Instagram, and goes to the Anonybitch account. The post is the most recent one – people are commenting, tagging their guesses, but from what she can see, most of them are guessing Peter and herself.

 

_Oh god._

 

“But . . . _who_ . . .?” she says, then winces, because her voice came out high-pitched, on the verge of tears.

 

“Covey,” Peter says, hoarsely. He reaches for her, but before he can touch her shoulder, Josh steps in between them.

 

“You’re a piece of shit,” Josh says. “It’s pretty obvious you were the one – ”

 

“That is fucking _bullshit_ – ” Peter snaps, and moves towards him like he’s going to push him.

 

“No, don’t!” Lara Jean shouts, terrified.

 

“Stop stop stop!” Margot exclaims, getting in between both boys.

 

“You’re the asshole who keeps sniffing around my girlfriend,” Peter says, as Lara Jean tries to pull him back. “Ever since those letters got out –“

 

“Peter, _no_ –“

 

“What letters?” Margot says, confused.

 

“You’re a fucking douchebag, Kavinsky, so shut –“

 

Desperate, Lara Jean shouts, “Josh!”

 

“She’s not in love with you anymore, so back the hell off – ”

 

“You’re in love with Josh?”

 

Everyone goes silent. Panicked, her own humiliation forgotten, Lara Jean can only stare at a stunned Margot, before she rushes over. “Margot, _no,_ see – it’s really complicated but – ” She reaches for her sister.

 

But Margot shrugs her off. “Is – is this why you wouldn’t talk to me?” she whispers. “The entire time I was gone? Because you and Josh were – ”

 

Lara Jean’s heart plummets. “Margot, don’t –“ she exclaims, distraught. “It’s not what you think –”

 

“I sent out the letters!” All eyes turn to Kitty, wringing her hands nervously in front of her, teeth clenched in a forced, apologetic smile.

 

“What?” Margot asks, bewildered.

 

“You _what_?!” Lara Jean shrieks, at the same time.

 

“Huh?” Josh says.

 

“Oh shit,” Peter says, trying to snatch at the collar of Lara Jean’s jacket, before she launches herself at her little sister.

 

“You’re dead! You are _DEAD!!!_ ” Lara Jean screams, chasing after Kitty, who flees around the island towards Margot.

 

“Covey!” Peter yells, trying to grab her again.

 

“LJ, she’s just a kid!” Margot exclaims, getting in between them.

 

“Ah! Help! Help!” Kitty squeals, dashing behind Josh.

 

“How could you send them?!” Lara Jean shouts, as Peter grabs both of her upper arms from behind and holds her back. “How?! HOW!!!!!”

 

“You were lonely and I just wanted to help and I could tell Peter liked you – ”

 

“So you sent all _five_ of them out?!”

 

“I thought five chances of getting a boyfriend were better odds!”

 

“What kind of logic is that?!” Josh yells over his shoulder at her.

 

“I missed you coming around!” Kitty says, and then bursts into tears. “You and Margot broke up and Margot left us and then you didn’t hang out with us anymore and – and – I thought you must not have gotten yours, I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble and _please_ don’t hate each other anymore!”

 

“Aw, Kitty, don’t,” Josh says, stricken.

 

“Come on, kid,” Peter says, wincing.

 

“Don’t fall for it!” Lara Jean snarls, managing to break free from Peter and darting for Kitty again. “She’s got the two of you wrapped around her sneaky dirty finger!”

 

As Kitty dashes away into the corner of the kitchen, she trips over Lara Jean’s discarded backpack. The contents go spilling out – travel-sized toiletries, her make-up bag . . . and a single condom, that must’ve fallen out from its companions left in the brown paper bag, still in the ski lodge.

 

Lara Jean just buries her face in her hands, utterly defeated. She takes a shaky breath, listening as she hears someone shuffling forward to push everything back into her bag. When she’s sufficiently composed, she looks up – at Peter, his face pinched and shouldering her backpack – at Josh, mortified and looking up at the ceiling, hands on his hips – and at Margot, who looks like she’s been hit by a truck.

 

“Can someone please just tell me what’s going _on?_ ” Margot asks, quietly.

 

Lara Jean swallows, and nods rapidly. She turns to Peter, stares at a spot above his shoulder. She can’t look at him. She can’t even think about the implications of that Anonybitch post right now. Everything is just whirling. “Can you just get Kitty out of our hair for a sec?”

 

She can feel his gaze – can practically hear his jaw working. He says, lowly, “You know I didn’t – that I would _never . . ._ right?”

 

Suddenly, what happened on the bus is coming into sharp focus. But there’s Margot to think about, and she can’t get into it with him. She can’t think about it right now. She has to think about Margot. “Can you please just get her out of here for a little bit?” she pleads.

 

Peter bites his lip, sighs, but then says, to Kitty, “Come on, kid, we’re gone.”

 

“Where are we going?” Kitty sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Margot rolls her eyes at her and hands her a tissue, and she blows into it, honking like a duck.

 

“For a walk,” Peter says, brisk, and ushers her out the door before she can further protest.

 

Lamely, Lara Jean gestures at the couch to her sister and her former crush. Margot and Josh exchange awkward, fleeting glances at each other. “What I’m gonna say is incredibly awkward and you might end up hating me, but, I think I should just get it out all on the table,” she says, as they all sit down together.

 

*

 

“Who would win? Captain America, or Iron Man?”

 

Peter shrugs, pretending to be interested in playing Candy Crush. In reality, he keeps bringing Instagram back up. Watching the likes and the comments and the tags tick inevitably upward. It’s killing him. He’s had worse posted on Anonybitch about him, but that was just him. He could take it, no problem. He’s never ever seen anything about Covey on there before. That everything he was scared of – bringing her down, being the bad guy, the bad influence – is coming true . . . He shakes his head, and grumbles, to Kitty, “They had an entire movie about this, next.”

 

Kitty, sitting with her back against one of the porch posts, rolls her eyes. “Hulk, or Captain Marvel?”

 

“Hulk.”

 

“That’s sexist,” Kitty says. “Captain Marvel would totally kick his ass.”

 

“Wouldn’t know, haven’t seen it.”

 

“ _What?!_ ” Kitty shrieks.

 

“Kitty!”

 

“Fine,” she grumps. She’s quiet for a merciful moment, but then posits, “So, in a haunted house with three doors as your only escape, which would you choose? The first one, with man-eating sharks in a pool? The second one, with a blood-sucking vampire? Or the third one, with brain-eating zombies?”

 

“ . . . _What_?”

 

“Just answer the question!”

 

Peter thumps his head against his porch post. “Um . . . is the third door with fast-moving zombies, or slow-moving zombies?”

 

“Fast-moving, for sure.”

 

“Of course. Well, that’s out. Vampire, then.”

 

“Ehhhh!” she says, making a buzzer noise. “Incorrect. You should’ve chosen the first door.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

“I didn’t say if the sharks were in water or not,” Kitty says, simply. Peter gives her a look. “They’re in an empty pool!” she cackles.

 

He sighs, wipes his hand down his face. His phone vibrates and he looks at it – another notification from Instagram. Fucking hell. He can take rumors – he’s done it for years now – but Lara Jean . . . he’d meant it, even though she didn’t like it, when he told her he thought she was this nice, innocent girl. Because that’s what everybody thinks of her. At least, they used to.

 

Not anymore, though. Because of him.

 

Pissed, he gives up and changes his notification settings, then stands. It feels like Lara Jean, Margot, and Josh have been in there for hours. There haven’t been any raised voices, at least from what he can tell. But he’s wondering what the hell is going on, what’s being said. What Sanderson’s saying about him. That piece of shit legit thought he’d spread rumors about his own girlfriend.

 

“Let’s just – cut it out for a few minutes, okay?”

 

Kitty pauses, then says, sadly, “I really screwed things up, didn’t I?”

 

He sighs again. “Nah, you didn’t,” he says, tugging at her a pigtail to her to smile. She swats his hand away. “Look, far as I’m concerned, you did me a solid.”

 

She brightens up immediately. “I didn’t, didn’t I?” she says, smiling happily, and he huffs out a laugh. But then she deflates again. “But I don’t think Margot and Josh are getting back together.”

 

“Why do you guys like him so much, anyway?” he says, a bit too harshly. He almost says, _He’s a punk ass_ but bites his tongue.

 

“He’s really cool. And nice. And smart. And – ”

 

“You can stop now,” Peter says, grudgingly.

 

“ – And I guess I just missed him being around. Like I missed Margot being around.” Kitty pulls her legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them. Buries her chin in between her knees so that her cheeks puff out like a sad little chipmunk. “If you and LJ ever break up, you’re still gonna hang out with me, right?”

 

“We’re not breaking up,” Peter says, immediately, a bit sad for her himself now. She reminds him a little too much of Owen, when Dad left. He sits down next to her and bumps her shoulder with his. “And even if we were, I’m getting shared custody.” Kitty grins up at him.

 

The door opens suddenly, and Sanderson comes out, hood up and hands buried into the pockets of his sweatshirt. Peter stands up, gives him his best glare. There’s only one reason why Josh would want to come over to talk to Lara Jean, and it wasn’t just to tell her about the Anonybitch post. As far as Peter’s concerned, that’s every reason to knock the shit out of Sanderson. Twice.

 

But Josh just glares back at him, eyebrow raised, and before Peter can say anything, Kitty bursts out, “Is everything okay?” Right. The kid. Better not start anything in front of Kitty.

 

“We’re cool,” Sanderson says, to Kitty. “Have a good night.” He walks down the stairs, starts to head to his house next door.

 

Desperate, Kitty calls after him, “Wait! Josh!” Sanderson stops, turns to look. “Can we – can you come over again? Soon?”

 

Sanderson hedges, glances at Peter. He just barely resists lifting his chin at him. Then Josh says, kindly, to Kitty, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

Kitty bites her lip, tears welling.

 

But then Josh says, “But you can come over anytime, okay?” She nods, rapidly, smiling. He

disappears beyond the hedgerow with a wave. Kitty stares at her feet, arms crossed.

 

Peter puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezes, but then she runs off into the house. When Peter steps inside, he sees all three girls wrapped up in a gigantic bear hug in the middle of the couch.

 

He gives them a moment before he clears his throat. Lara Jean looks up and says, to her sisters, “I’ll be right back.” Margot nods, and as she puts on her coat again, she says, to Kitty, “You owe me braid crowns for the rest of your life.”

 

Kitty nods weakly at her.

 

Lara Jean shuts the door behind them. They bound down the steps together, and he sees her wiping her face with her hands, to get rid of the tear stains. Before he can take her hand, she crosses her arms, so he stuffs his own hands into the pockets of his jacket. They go down the sidewalk for a little bit in silence.

 

“Everything okay?” he asks, eventually.

 

“Hmm?” she murmurs, as if distracted. “Yeah. I guess.” She shrugs. “Margot doesn’t hate me, thank god. I – you know – I told her about the letters. The fake dating thing. She understood. They both did.”

 

“Cool.” He pauses, then says, hesitant, “I’m sorry I lost it back there. You know. Basically telling your sister about Sanderson, and all.”

 

She nods once, eyes on the pavement. “It’s okay. It all kinda went kablooey, didn’t it?”

 

He hesitates again, but he has to know, for sure. “So – he’s not coming around anymore?” Finally, she looks up at him, confused. “Josh. He kinda scrammed before he said anything real.”

 

“Oh. Oh, no, no he’s not. I mean, we’re all okay with each other now but we kinda agreed it would be weird. But, you know, with Kitty – she still wants to hang out, I’m sure – and that’s fine – but maybe strictly over at his, for now.”

 

“Okay. Cool.” He can be the understanding boyfriend about this. He should – he “won” after all.

 

They make a loop around the block in complete silence. There’s nothing but the crickets, the occasional passing car – the sound of their feet on the sidewalk. He swallows. Something doesn’t feel right. Like a wall’s come up between them again, and he’s the only one who can’t see it.

 

“I’m just really glad Margot doesn’t hate me,” Lara Jean says, suddenly. “I don’t think I could’ve lived with myself if she . . . was disappointed, or hurt . . .”

 

Peter stops, and she does too. “Who could hate you?” he says, moving to cup the back of her head. But just as his fingers brush her hair, Lara Jean pulls back.

 

_Shit,_ he thinks, when she finally looks up at him, eyes hard and glassy.

 

“Who was it?” she says, voice wobbling. “Was it Greg? Darrell? I know they’re guys, and they’re not really my friends, but I honestly thought they actually liked me – ”

 

“Whoa – wait – no, hold up.” He puts out his hand. “No way. They do like you! They wouldn’t do that.”

 

“Yeah, but they can laugh about it,” she says, bitter. At his confused look, she says, “The bus? Come _on_ , Peter.”

 

He feels his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “I didn’t come back to the room last night, so the guys – they all just assumed – ”

 

“Well, did you tell them no, or did you –“

 

“ _Of course_ , but you _know_ them!”

 

“Well, you didn’t have to lie about it,” she says, arms still crossed tight over her chest.

 

He sighs, exasperated – pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry,” he says, and means it. “I just – didn’t want to get into it – after . . . I didn’t want to upset you.” He rolls his eyes. “Which totally ended up happening anyway.”

 

Lara Jean makes a fed up face, buries her face in her hands. He puts a tentative arm around her shoulders, kisses the top of her head. There’s a heart-stopping moment where he thinks she won’t forgive him, and he’s swallowing past the lump in his throat, terrified that he’s permanently fucked things up – and then she relaxes, and hugs him back. “I am really sorry about all this,” he says, into her neck. “I’ll tell them to knock it off if they bring it up again. But they didn’t make that post, I swear. Here, look.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls through his texts. The last two are from Greg and Darrell, giving him a heads up about the post.

 

From Darrell – _Pammy wants LJ to give her a call, she’s worried._

And from Greg – _Large ok?_

 

She looks at him, wary. “Then . . . it was Gen, wasn’t it?”

 

Peter sighs, worries his lip between his teeth. “Yeah, I think so,” he admits, looking up at the sky. Here, there are too many lights to see the stars, and it’s just blank, almost smoked-out. Suddenly, he wishes he was back there, on that dock, with Covey. Away from this bullshit. “She does that – lashes out.”

 

“Even after I apologized . . .” She shakes her head, and at first he thinks it’s out of anger, and she’d be justified, but then he realizes Lara Jean’s just . . . sad. “She’s so messed up,” she murmurs, and his heart clenches, because even after all this shit that’s been put on her, that’s Lara Jean – kind, sweet. And understanding.

 

“I know. I’m sorry, again.” He reaches for her again, and rests his chin on the top of her head. He’ll fix it. He will. “I’ll talk to Gen. Get her to take the post down.”

 

He feels her sigh and nod her head. “I just . . . last night . . . this morning . . . whatever . . . it was the most special, private moment for me,” she whispers. “And now it’s – it just sucks that everybody’s talking about it, like they were there.”

 

“So?” he scoffs, trying to play it off like it doesn’t bother him, either. But he’ll do it, he’ll pretend everything’s all right, because it will be. He’ll make it right, for her. “Don’t look at the comments, Covey, that’s the first rule of – ”

 

“If you say Fight Club I might actually stomp on your foot,” she interrupts.

 

He smirks. “They don’t know what really went on, and they never will. It’s just between you and me, kid.”

 

She smiles up at him, and it’s shaky, but at least it’s a smile – and that light in her eyes is back, the one that he’s beginning to see is just for him, whenever he does or says something right, and he feels like he did something so extraordinary, like scaled a mountain, just for her.

 

He kisses her forehead, and takes her hand. They start walking again, taking a slow lope around the block. When they come back to her driveway, he clears his throat and asks, “So, not gonna lie – dying of curiosity. What did you say to Sanderson, exactly?”

 

“That’s private.”

 

Peter snorts. “Yeah, right. You can’t leave me hanging.”

 

“No, it’s embarrassing. It was a mortifying conversation. I wanted to die.”

 

“I bet. Which is why I’m want to know.”

 

She eyes him, annoyed. “You’re just gonna keep bugging me until I give in, huh?”

 

He makes a shooting motion with his finger and thumb. “Yup. Life’s purpose now, remember?”

 

With some annoyance, she sighs and looks down at their entwined hands. “I told him that I used to have a crush on him. That . . . he was my friend, and I had all these feelings for him based on that. And that the letters getting sent out kind of brought all those feelings back.” Peter slackens his grip slightly. He’d guessed, of course. Why else would she agree to fake date him – why else would she need him to get Sanderson to back off? It wasn’t just about keeping her sister in the dark about a past crush. It kind of smarts, but then again, he’d be lying if he said he started all this with a completely clean slate himself.

 

“But after a while, I began to realize . . . maybe those weren’t feelings coming back. Just the memory of them. And that someone else got a letter, too. And all of a sudden, the other letters didn’t matter anymore.” She looks up at him, smiles, big, eyes shining, and he can’t help but grin back down at her. “Come on. I’m worried about the cookies, with them just sitting there – ”

 

“Hold up hold up hold up – you’re not off the hook yet,” he says, pulling at her hand. She raises her brows at him, confused, and he says, “How come you never told your sister about me?”

 

“Huh?” She blinks at him. “Is this about the Instagram thing?”

 

“ _No_.” She gives him a knowing look, brows raised. “Well, kinda.”

 

She rubs the back of her neck. “I didn’t tell her about, you know, us, because there wasn’t an us, I mean, back then – and I didn’t want her asking questions about us, because there wasn’t an us, not really. And if she started asking questions, I would have to answer, and I hate answering, because I can’t lie to her, of all people – ” She stops, then says, helpless, “I didn’t want to tell her about Josh. And then later . . . I didn’t want to admit to her that I was falling for you for real. Because that would mean I’d have to admit to myself that, too.”

 

Peter does his very best to not smile at her, even though it’s kind of killing him not to. “Wow,” he says, after a long moment, just barely keep his expression still. “Heavy.”

 

“Okay, just for that, you’re never going on my Instagram,” she snaps, annoyed.

 

He fake-gasps at her, and Lara Jean laughs, and tries to punch his bicep. He bursts out laughing, and easily grabs her wrists – traps her arms against her sides and lifts her in a big bear hug. He can feel her laugh against him, a joyful hum, and he spins her around, like she’s flying, like the both of them are.

 

*

 

**Epilogue**

 

Lara Jean sits at her desk. After some hesitation, she signs the letter, _Your friend, Lara Jean._ She’s folding the piece of flowered paper into perfect, even thirds when the knock on her bedroom window startles her.

 

“Hey,” she says, as Peter climbs in. He looks tired, a little ragged, as he flops down heavily onto her bed. Quickly, she goes to her bedroom door and turns the lock. It’s so late, Dad and Kitty are asleep, but she’d rather not take any chances. Kitty nearly caught them a few weeks ago. Lara Jean had to rescind her braid crowns for life threat in order to make sure her little sister wouldn’t rat them out. “How is she?” she asks, as she takes a seat next to him.

 

Peter shrugs, pensive. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. “Okay, I guess,” he says. “I told her she should get help.”

 

“And?” Lara Jean presses.

 

He shrugs again, staring at the floor. “I dunno. I mean, she didn’t threaten to do anything to herself, at least.” The unspoken words are, “This time.” Then he says, “I’m thinking of telling her mom. To get her help.”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly. This was the fourth time Gen’s called him, distraught. There was a frosty period where they all mutually ignored each other, even after the Anonybitch post was removed and people began to move on to the more up-and-coming gossip.

 

But then it started. The first two times Peter had ignored the drunken voicemails. The third time, though, Gen had called Lara Jean’s house during movie night and Kitty happened to pick up. That was when Peter had decided enough was enough and he’d gone over to tell her back off, only to find out about Gen’s dad and Anna Hicks. It had turned Lara Jean’s stomach, knowing about this latest affair – although the entire situation made her uneasy, she was sympathetic. She honestly couldn’t imagine having to deal with that. This last time call though, made when Peter was helping her out with making snickerdoodles for Dad’s hospital colleagues . . . Lara Jean had accidentally overheard the call, the way Gen’s voice pitched, high and wobbly and threatening. It made Lara Jean worry, legitimately worry. Now, she’s just glad Peter’s starting to realize he may be way out of his depth. She knows she is, at least.

 

She takes his hand, presses her mouth to his temple. “You’re a good guy, Peter Kavinsky,” she murmurs. He snorts, derisive, but leans into her and she kisses his cheek.

 

He pulls away, and looks at her, trying to be cheery. “So. What are you up to?”

 

She smiles at him, sheepish. “Promise not to be mad?”

 

He raises a brow at her, rubs his chin. “Interesting. What happened?”

 

She hesitates, then says, “Um, well, I got a letter. From someone who got one of my letters.”

 

Peter’s brow rises even higher. “Who? That kid from summer camp?” She shakes her head, and then he says, incredulous, “McClaren?”

 

She winces, chewing on her thumbnail. “Yeah.”

 

He blows out a slow breath. “You know, he had a thing for you. Back in eighth grade.”

 

“Yeah, I think he may have,” she admits, quietly. “His letter kinda made me think that.”

 

Now both of his eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Okay. I gotta read his, then.”

 

“Peter! That’s private!”

 

“That’s bullshit,” he says. “The stuff you wrote to me was pretty obvious so I can’t imagine what you wrote to him – ”

 

“It was _eighth grade_ – ”

 

“So was the letter you wrote me!” he says, laughing. “And look what happened to us.” Then he stops. “Wait, who did you like first? Him or me?”

 

“Peter!”

 

“Lara Jean!” he whines, mimicking her.

 

“There might’ve been some overlap,” she admits, eventually, and he hoots.

 

“You really _are_ a player, Covey.”

 

She rolls her eyes, then marches back to her desk and almost throws John’s letter at him. He unfolds the paper dramatically, then proceeds to read it. She watches him cautiously. His expression is mocking as he reads, but by the end, he schools it back to neutral before folding it up and handing it back to her.

 

“Well, he’s clearly still into you,” he says.

 

“I know,” she says.

 

He looks at her in surprise. “Not so dense anymore, huh?” he says, admiringly.

 

She taps his forehead with her knuckle. “Ditto,” she says. Then she turns back to her desk, and hands him another letter.

 

_Dear John –_

_Thank you for the letter. This is really embarrassing, but I wrote that back in eighth grade. I had this system where anytime I had a crush on someone, I would write them a letter and seal it away in a hatbox so I could move on with my life. I know – pretty silly, right? My little sister found your letter – all the letters, actually – and mailed them out. She said she did it as a favor, and I guess she was right, because in the end, it had a happy ending._

_I hope you’re doing well, and that you’re still in Model U.N. I really liked hanging out with you and the rest of the gang back in middle school, too._

_It’s funny how things turned out. I’m actually dating Peter Kavinsky now, do you remember him? Anyway, thank you for writing me back. It brought back many good memories._

_Best wishes, your friend,_

_Lara Jean_

“You forgot to mention how hot and funny I am,” Peter says, handing her back the letter with a deadpan expression.

 

“I would be lying,” she replies, mouth in a straight line, but eyes twinkling, as he leans in to kiss her, and she pulls him down to the bed. They haven’t been able to do this in a while – only twice since the ski trip. She feels guilty fooling around when their parents or siblings are home. Speaking of which . . .

 

“We can’t,” she says, when he starts to pull her tank top up. “Dad’s home.”

 

He pouts, but stops. “Can I stay the night?”

 

“He’s home, Peter – ”

 

“Please? I’ll leave early.” He kisses the crook of her neck, lips slightly parted. “I won’t even touch you that much, I promise.”

 

She snickers, slaps him upside the head. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

 

“Hey, I’m just saying, if my hands start to wander, and _you_ get tempted, that’s on you” – he points at her – “and not me.”

 

“Well, then, you definitely have to go,” she says, pushing at his chest.

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll keep it PG-13.” She glares at him. “PG.”

 

Lara Jean rolls her eyes, shakes her head. The fact is, she misses him when he doesn’t stay. Unfortunately, he knows it. “If you’re out by 4:00 am. Dad’s got an early shift tomorrow.”

 

“Deal,” he says, triumphant.

 

He toes off his sneakers and she turns of the light after he’s done setting his alarm on his phone. Then they slip underneath the covers, and she lies on his chest, closes her eyes. Breathes with him. Tomorrow, she’ll mail the letter to John. She’ll offer to go with Peter to see Gen’s mom. He’ll need help, she’s sure of it. But those are things to think about tomorrow. Tonight, she’ll fall asleep, relish the feel of Peter’s breath in her hair, that feeling of butterflies ghosting up and down her entire body, through his, whenever they’re together.

 

-The End-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sincerely for your patience, I am sorry it took so long. Work/life, blah blah blah. :)


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